


The Cuban Affair

by STHPDWSH



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Amycus Carrow is his own warning, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Rating subject to change, all that good shit, more tags to be added probably, playing fast and loose with canon (aka Actual Real Life History in this case), that TMFU!AU you asked me for like three years ago
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 11:04:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13234347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/STHPDWSH/pseuds/STHPDWSH
Summary: My new year's resolution is to stop being a shit friend and Actually Do Stuff!Also, this almost certainly could've done with more editing, but it's been sitting on my laptop for at least two and a half years now and I figured if I posted it then I'd have more motivation to finish the rest of it so uh, sorry if it's not quite up to my usual incredible standards





	The Cuban Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lunastique](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunastique/gifts).



> My new year's resolution is to stop being a shit friend and Actually Do Stuff!
> 
> Also, this almost certainly could've done with more editing, but it's been sitting on my laptop for at least two and a half years now and I figured if I posted it then I'd have more motivation to finish the rest of it so uh, sorry if it's not quite up to my usual incredible standards

Under any other circumstances, Amycus would be quite happy with such a beautiful woman holding him tightly and pressing her face into his chest. Right now, however, it was a terrible inconvenience -- especially as she was ruining his outfit, and if Amycus had to get this damn suit pressed _again_ he would not be very impressed.

Patting her back and whispering small words of comfort, he gently but firmly extracted himself from her grip and chanced a peek over the low wall -- it hardly deserved the title of _wall_ , really, but he didn’t have time to search through his vocabulary and pick a suitable substitute -- and promptly ducked back down again, narrowly missing the bullet that chipped the top of the not-wall above his head and cursing under his breath. They were getting closer.

“Daphne,” he hissed, and her chocolate brown eyes -- red rimmed, they were red rimmed, she’d been _crying on his shirt_ \-- snapped up to meet his gaze. “We have to go _now_.” She nodded dumbly but didn’t move, and internally, Amycus cursed Sanders for giving him this fucking mission. If Daphne was _anyone_ else, they would’ve been out of here by now -- but _no_ , of _course_ she’d had to go back for her _beloved purse_ , rather than letting Amycus save her damn skin. (He had poached a couple of _very_ nice rings (one that was gold, perhaps eighteen carat at a rough estimate, with one large (very real) diamond and two (also very real) smaller rubies set into the smooth, practically flawless band; and one that was definitely sterling silver with a tiny (but still expensive) sapphire inlayed almost casually into the ring) that had been lying innocently on her dresser while she’d been distracted, however, which admittedly was a nice positive. Both of the rings would fetch a high price, and the money would feed directly into his, ah, retirement fund.)

But the fact of the matter was, if he couldn’t shake these damn Russians off of their tail, then his retirement fund would unfortunately mean nothing -- not if he was dead.

“Daphne,” he said again, just about managing to keep the irritation out of his tone as he gazed seriously at her. “When I say _run_ , you grab my hand and you do not let go and you run like hell, okay?” She blinked, swallowed, nodded. Good. Maybe this wouldn’t be so difficult after all, especially since she was hanging onto his every word.

But when he heard the harsh Russian shouts drawing closer and peeked over the not-wall again to shoot as many of them as possible, the sheer number of agents and the lack of bullets in his gun (it was _not_ his fault he’d forgotten to check; he’d just, uh, been more preoccupied with Daphne’s safety than with reloading) proved him very much wrong. He shot two agents before the _click_ of the empty chamber made his insides turn cold. _Whoops._ Now they were very much dead -- unless he could lose the Russians and get Daphne to the safehouse.

The only problem was, the CIA safehouse was in the centre of Paris, and they were still very much on the outskirts, with who knew how many KGB agents directly in their way.

“ _Run_ ,” he hissed urgently, throwing his (now empty and useless) gun over the wall with his right hand (it was a long shot, but would hopefully cause enough confusion and/or panic to give him and Daphne a few seconds’ head start) as (luckily) Daphne remembered his instructions and grabbed his left, setting off at a surprisingly fast pace for such a short woman who usually did nothing more than stroll around shopping centres every day. Amycus wasn’t complaining, though; if he had underestimated her, hopefully the Russians would have too, and this would give them yet another advantage, however short-lived. Seeing as she would have no problem keeping up, Amycus took the lead and pulled her through street after winding street, shoving gawking locals and tourists alike out of their way -- and, as an afterthought, pushing them back _in_ to the Russians’ way. Anything that would buy them a few seconds longer.

He hadn’t quite been keeping track of where they were going, but suddenly they were on a wider, more populated street, lined with pretty little flower shops and bakeries and cafés: a tourist trap. Daphne was starting to slow behind him, her tight grip on his hand being the only thing that was keeping her from falling too far behind, and it was with no small amount of glee that he noticed a motorcycle -- _with the key still in the ignition_ \-- propped up against the side of a tiny little restaurant. Amycus made a beeline for it, urging the young woman on first and climbing on behind her just as he spotted a couple of KGB agents patrolling the street on foot. They were dressed like civilians, sure, but their stiff posture and obvious alertness gave them away -- that and the way the shorter one’s eyes widened as he spotted Amycus and Daphne, shouting something in Russian at his partner and moving urgently towards them.

Both agents’ hands were in their pockets, and Amycus really didn’t feel like coming up close and personal with whatever weapons the Russians were now using and so, throwing a belated “ _Merci beaucoup!_ ” over his shoulder at the angry Parisian who had run out of the restaurant to yell at him in enraged French, Amycus twisted the key in the ignition and set off in search of a main road or something to help him find his bearings. The bike was slow, at least by his usual standards, and had probably never been above fifty -- but the speedometer was in _kilometres_ per hour, and he had absolutely no idea what the conversion rate was, so he just pushed the little bike as fast as it would go.

A scream from Daphne was what alerted him to the three KGB agents -- _how many fucking people did they even have?_ \-- standing in the centre of the road, guns raised and most definitely pointing at them. “Hang on, sweetheart,” whispered Amycus, crouching low (or as low as he could with Daphne’s slight frame in the way, at least) over the bike and revving the small engine. He wasn’t quite sure whether he was talking to the bike or to the woman, but either way it worked: Daphne clutched tightly at the front of the bike, and the bike itself seemed to purr underneath him, gaining a burst of speed from somewhere and racing directly towards the agent in the centre.

“What are you _doing_?” Daphne hissed, knuckles turning white as she realised his intentions.

“Playing chicken,” he grinned, the thrill of adrenalin singing in his veins. “He’ll crack first. They always do.”

Except for a long, horrible moment he _didn’t_ , and Amycus almost started to regret his plan as he drew closer, closer, closer to the KGB agent standing between him and the area of Paris that he did know, the streets he could easily lose any Russian tail in. What the fuck was he doing? Surely he could tell that Amycus wouldn’t stop; surely he knew that against a motorbike travelling at over a hundred kilometres per hour, whatever that was in American, no amount of body armour would protect him. So why wasn’t he moving? What the fuck did they teach them in the KGB?

Amycus swallowed back a curse as one shot grazed his side, _ruining_ his suit, another pinged off the side of the bike and a third flew wide overhead. He smiled grimly. Fucking Russian _bastards_. He should’ve known they wouldn’t let him get away quite that easily. Whatever they wanted Daphne for, it was clearly extremely important, to warrant so many agents being deployed. The police would show up soon enough, and while Amycus had no problem with a plethora of Russian agents being discovered in Paris, Sanders would have his guts for garters if he dared to compromise the secrecy of the American presence in France. While Sanders wasn’t a particularly scary man, he’d no doubt use that situation to his advantage and try to wrangle another few years of service from him, and _that_ was not something Amycus could let happen. He had to lose the Russians _before_ the police showed up, or....

Luckily the agent finally did jump out of the way at the last second, but Amycus swore loudly as he spotted a flash of metal in his outstretched hand and felt a knife scrape against his other side. _Bastard._

He didn’t have the time to spare to check it out, but it didn’t _feel_ deep -- just a superficial wound, another scar to add to the collection. Nothing that needed immediate attention. However, coupled with the hole from the gunshot wound, the tear from the knife wound and the blood slowly oozing from each injury, his suit was well and truly beyond saving.

They were past the Russians now, at least, even if the closest one had thrown something that looked very suspiciously like a tracking device after them -- and Amycus had been too preoccupied with weaving through the traffic and dodging bullets to recall whether it had missed or not. They needed to change vehicle _now_.

It took a few more turns to be completely sure he’d lost all three KGB agents, and then he swerved into an alleyway he recognised from almost twelve years ago now, when he’d rented an apartment for a couple of months as he scoped out the Louvre, back in his previous life. He jumped off the bike halfway down the alley and pulled Daphne with him, ignoring her cries, which were reaching borderline hysteria by now -- “They were shooting at us, they were shooting, they were _shooting_ , oh, oh, oh my goodness you’re _bleeding_ ” -- and urged her through the nearest window.

Daphne was clearly well past arguing by now and did exactly as he said, holding her skirt down as she slid through, although she did clutch at his sleeve after they’d made their way through the flat (terrifying the family who lived there while they were at it) and out onto the landing. “What are we doing?” she whispered, eyes wide with fear. “Where are we going? What do they want from me?”

Amycus took pity on her as they hurried up the staircase and started to explain, as best he could under their present circumstances. “Right now, we are getting far away from that bike, as quickly as possible.”

“Why?”

He offered her a reassuring grin as he tried the handle of the door to the roof, which widened as the door swung open easily. “Because, sweetheart, our dear Russian friends might be able to track it. Of course, it _might_ be completely tracker free, but we can’t afford to take that chance -- not when they want you so badly.” He frowned slightly down at her. “As for _why_ they want you, though, all I know is they want your father in their pocket and their best bet is to use you as a bargaining chip. Now,” he gestured at the gap between their apartment block and the next one along, “after you.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “You must be _mad_.”

“Nope. Chop chop; I don’t know how long the Russians’ll be.”

“I am not jumping.”

She crossed her arms stubbornly, and in any other situation he might’ve admired her resolve, but right then he didn’t have time for it. “Yes, you are,” he told her, and gripped her upper arm, leaping onto the next roof and hauling her with him. It was a _tiny_ gap, really, more of a step than a jump, but Daphne still screamed and clung tightly to him.

“See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” he said soothingly, and she slapped him.

“I am not doing that again.”

Amycus blinked away his shock and shrugged, lips curling up into an amused grin. “Well, it’s your decision, sweetheart,” he drawled, “but you have two choices. Stay here and wait for the Russians to show up and kidnap you, or come with me back to America. Coming with me involves more jumping. And preferably less screaming this time.”

Daphne glared at him for a few seconds before common sense won out and she reached for his hand, taking it between both of hers. “Fine. We do things your way.”

It took only a few more jumps before they reached the end of the row, and then they were running again, down the rusted metal steps on the side of the building, slowing to a fast walk as they weaved through the crowded streets. Amycus ensured that they doubled back on themselves a few times as they did so, making sure to completely lose any tail that might be following them (he wasn’t paranoid, just careful, and acutely aware that the KGB was much better than he normally liked to give them credit for) before he dared head towards the CIA safehouse.

Daphne pulled him into a hug as soon as the door shut behind them, burying her face in his chest, and he tentatively wrapped his arms around her, stroking her hair soothingly. “Shh, it’s alright,” he murmured. She’d had a big shock to her system today, he knew that, even if it was irritating to have had to play at being friendly throughout it all.

“You’re CIA?” Those big brown eyes were gazing earnestly up at him now, and he nodded, offering her a smile.

“This is a safehouse. You’re safe here. Okay? We leave for America in the morning, and this time tomorrow you’ll be back home with your father. Why don’t you go get some sleep?”

She nodded tiredly, and Amycus let out an inaudible sigh of relief as she left the room, crossing to the cabinet that he knew from experience would contain the medical kit. Cleaning the wounds and stitching himself up was tedious, as usual, and he justified a glass of whiskey under the pretence of using it as a painkiller. The one after that was to congratulate himself on another job well done, and just as he was about to pour himself a third (he’d think of an excuse to justify that one later), Daphne walked back in.

 _Prowled_ would be more accurate, actually. She was now wearing a dressing gown, and, Amycus was pleased to note, what looked like nothing underneath -- the short hem and deep neckline left little to the imagination. She stalked towards him and rested her hands on his bare chest, looking up through her lashes and biting her lower lip. Her attempts at seduction were flattering, at least, even if the overall effect wasn’t quite what she was going for. She was in her early twenties, almost a decade younger than him, still new to the art of wrapping people around her finger -- and getting them into bed.

“Can I help you?” he asked, voice low, eyebrow arched in feigned nonchalance.

“I think _I_ can help _you_ ,” she practically purred. Her words needed work, sure, but she had the tone of voice down perfectly.

“Oh really?” It was painfully obvious what she wanted, and Amycus was more than willing to give it to her, but he wanted to wait this out and see what other tricks she might try first.

He wasn’t disappointed. She leaned forwards, rising up on her tiptoes to brush her lips against his jaw. She might be new to seduction, but this was clearly something she did have experience in, and he sighed at the first graze of teeth along his throat.

“Maybe you _can_ help me,” he conceded, feeling her smile against his neck and letting her have the satisfaction of thinking she’d won. She didn’t have to know that he’d been planning on getting her into bed from the moment he’d been shown her picture when he was given the mission, he reflected as she pulled him down into a kiss. She could assume that she was good enough to seduce a CIA agent for all he cared -- all that really mattered to him was that she was another notch on his bedpost.

**

“You slept with the senator’s daughter.”

It wasn’t a question -- no, Sanders knew him too well for that. Amycus just grinned, blatant defiance of ‘standard procedure’ written all over his face.

“You never said I couldn’t.”

“Daphne Simatele announced her engagement _last year_. The wedding is next month.”

His grin widened, turning smug. Now wasn’t _that_ interesting. “Whoops,” he smirked. “I guess it’s a good thing I don’t keep up with the news.”

Sanders exhaled heavily through his nose, and Amycus could tell he was counting to ten slowly in his head. Wisely, he changed the subject before Amycus could irritate him even more.

“I have both good and bad news for you.”

Sighing dramatically, Amycus leaned back in his seat, folding his hands carefully in his lap. “Do go on,” he drawled, half-closing his eyes and reclining as much as humanly possible on the hard metal chair in front of his handler’s desk. “But, please, skip the clichés and tell me the good first.”

He could almost hear Sanders’ teeth grinding together as the older man inhaled slowly and exhaled for what seemed like years, and it took a great deal of willpower not to smirk or flash him a grin as he waited for the good news. Hopefully it would be something like time off -- fuck knew he needed some decent relaxation time after almost a decade of non-stop work.

“Your safety is guaranteed,” Sanders said at last, and that was enough to jerk Amycus out of his half-asleep façade.

“What?”

Sanders’ own eyebrow was raised now, in a pitiful attempt to recreate the smugness that radiated so naturally from Amycus’ every pore. “You said you wanted the good news first.”

Amycus narrowed his eyes, sitting up straighter. “So tell me the bad.”

“Let me level with you, Carrow,” Sanders started, clasping his hands together on top of the desk and leaning forwards earnestly. “We are almost in a state of international emergency. So you’re gonna have to swallow your pride on this one and get over yourself, or we’re all fucked.”

“What do _I_ have to do with a state of international emergency?” he asked, eyebrows furrowed. “I mean, I’m flattered, of course, but not even my escapades could cause something on an international scale. Everyone knows that it’s just for one night--”

“This has nothing to do with what you get up to in the bedroom.” The weariness was back, along with a tinge of annoyance that meant _back off now or you’re looking at six months of grunt work_. Amycus had been down that route before, and while he easily recognised the warning signs, he’d never been good at heeding advice -- not even his own. But just as he opened his mouth to no doubt damn himself to training new recruits or other such punishments, Sanders cut him off with a raised hand and a steely look in his eye that Amycus had only ever seen once before, that day almost ten years ago when the man had explained just how much shit he was in and how he could get out.

“Russia have placed nukes in Cuba.”

 _That_ got his attention. “You mean we’re…what, we’re at war?”

Sanders shook his head. “Not yet, at least. The politicians are playing nice, going on as if we don’t know they’re there -- but we’ve sent out some feelers, and the guy who’s doing this, Sasha Markovic, he’s not working for the Russians.”

“Markovic? I thought he was the Minister of Defence for Russia?”

“He is -- and that’s what makes this so worrying. He’s got some of the Russians convinced this is a good idea, but our sources tell us that whoever he’s doing this for, it isn’t his country. Someone wants World War Three -- but it’s not us, and it isn’t the Russians.”

“How do you know your sources are telling you the truth? Cuba’s a strategic location for them to take, even I know that. It’s a very Russian thing to do: go on the offensive, and then claim it’s not them to make us let our guard down.”

“We had considered that, but we also ran a background check on Markovic, and guess what? He didn’t exist before 1952.”

Amycus let out a low whistle. “So this is real, then? Some secret organisation wants World War Three, and they’re using us and the Russians to get it?”

Sanders nodded. “If things continue the way they are now, there’s a very real possibility that this will end in nuclear war.”

Amycus’ eyebrows shot up in disbelief. “You mean it isn’t war already?”

“There have been no offensive moves on either country’s part.”

“Are you being _serious_ right now? They have nukes in _Cuba_! That’s pretty fucking offensive if you ask me! They can wipe us out in, what, fifteen minutes?”

“You’re being overdramatic.”

“ _I’m_ being--?”

“ _Carrow_.” Gritting his teeth, Amycus forced himself to stay silent. That was Sanders’ business voice, the one he saved for rare occasions like threatening to send him to jail for the remainder of his sentence or, worse, threatening to extend it. “If you cannot keep a level head, then I will be forced to find a suitable replacement.”

The unspoken threat in that sentence had Amycus clenching his fists, digging his nails into his palms to keep himself from doing something stupid, like punching that son of a bitch in the face. “I understand,” he bit out.

“Now, if you’ll allow me to continue. You will be partnered with--”

“ _Partnered?_ I don’t do partners.”

“ _If you’ll allow me to continue_ , neither does he. But both of you are gonna have to just suck it up and play nice, otherwise we might not have a world worth living in in a couple of weeks’ time.”

It was Amycus’ turn to count to ten slowly in his head, before nodding and sighing heavily. “Alright. Fine. I can play nice for a couple of weeks, and then everything goes back to normal, right?”

A dry smile tugged at Sanders’ lips. “Providing you don’t get the whole damned world blown up in the process, yes, once this mess is all sorted out things will go ‘back to normal’. As normal as things usually are ‘round here, at least.”

“And if I-- if _we_ ”--that word was enough to make him grimace and shudder--“get things sorted out. Afterwards, I want some decent time off. I haven’t had more than a day to myself in ten years.”

“And whose fault is that, Carrow?”

It would be difficult, sure, but if anyone could get Sanders to agree to something it was him, and he wasn’t above exploiting a possible end of the world situation to get himself some R&R time.

“My own, sir,” and _fucking hell_ , showing that much respect in just three words almost made him want to tear his own throat out, and he had to remind himself that it would be worth it for just a couple of weeks to himself, “but I thought that maybe, since I have been such a loyal and impressive agent over the years, I might have earned some time away from the agency.”

Sanders snorted. “ _Loyal?_ You are many things, Carrow, but you are certainly not _loyal_. Loyal to yourself maybe, but to the CIA? To America? Don’t make me laugh.”

Amycus stayed silent, waiting as the man flipped through a few papers, figuratively crossing his fingers.

“But,” Sanders said at last, glancing back up at him, “you have proven yourself to be a remarkable field agent, and I suppose it’s only right that you have some time off to reflect that. How does a week sound? It’ll only cost you an extra year.”

He clenched his jaw, trying to quell the bitter wave of disappointment. He had _known_ it wouldn’t happen, but that didn’t make it any easier to handle.

“No?” Sanders’ voice was almost mocking. “Alright, then, if that’s all, you may go.”

Amycus got up and stalked towards the door of his office without another word, but paused with a hand on the door handle, just stopping himself from yanking it open and slamming it shut behind himself.

“You never told me who my partner is.”

“Didn’t I?”

Sanders’ voice sounded too innocent, with that almost smug undertone that he reserved for telling Amycus just how fucked he was. Sanders was a sadist, alright, and it showed in his smirk as Amycus turned reluctantly back to face him, waiting for the final insult.

“How good’s your Russian?”

**Author's Note:**

> We'll get to the good stuff next chapter I promise


End file.
